


this house isn’t a home

by majorshipper



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Drama, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majorshipper/pseuds/majorshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma Swan is doing fine until the past she’d rather forget about walks back into her life in the form of her ex-husband.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by elements from every green card marriage of convenience trope and The Proposal, but with a twist.

“For the last time, Ruby, I’m not interested in your new sex-on-legs coworker.” Emma huffed, turning her glare to her friend. 

“And why not? He’s hot, he’s totally your type. I think you’d get along great. He’s even got an accent, I _know_ you’re a sucker for that.” Ruby rolled her eyes at her. “Just one drink, Ems. Seriously. Your love life is beyond dead in the water.”

“And that’s exactly how I like it,” Emma muttered, taking a sip from her drink.

And it was true. Right now, all she cared about was her work, which, admittedly, was pretty shitty. But she didn’t have time or the energy for a relationship, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to hand over her heart to some idiot who probably cared more about getting ass than keeping it.

It was Ruby’s turn to scoff, but she didn’t say anything else, and Emma was relieved. She loved her friend, she honestly did, but she didn’t need or want any help finding a man. She had her house and her bug and that was all she needed.

Besides, tonight was girls’ night, and they weren’t _supposed_ to be talking about guys at all. At least, not ones that weren’t in the same bar as them. 

“So,” Ruby finally spoke, “since that topic is officially off the table, how’s the renovation going?”

Ugh. Her friend would find the one other topic she didn’t really want to deal with right now. She made a face, and Ruby nodded sagely.

“I wish I could help, but you know it’s impossible for me to get time off these days. Granny is working us all to the bone with the holidays coming up.” Emma shrugged, swirling what was left of the whiskey in her glass. 

“Unless you can lay tile, I really don’t think it would matter.”

She had been working on the master suite for nearly a year and a half already, but it was incredibly slow going. Contractor after contractor had dropped out after her work went through dry spots, and she’d finally given up and started to work on it herself. It was cathartic, she told herself, to be able to scrub out memories herself, to smash through drywall and throw the sink out the window.

It _was_ cathartic. But it was also hard work, and a pain in the ass, and she hated coming home to something unfinished.

“You know,” Ruby began, a smile breaking across her face, and Emma knew that look.

“No.” But she talked right over her.

“I bet Hook knows how to lay tile.” Her friend wiggled her eyebrows, adding, “I bet he could also help with any piping issues you might have.”

“Ugh,” Emma groaned, putting her face down on the table. “If you’re going to keep bringing him up you’re going to need to buy me at least a couple more rounds.”

“About that…” 

She lifted her head, eyeing her friend suspiciously. She was looking across the bar, back towards the entrance.

“Ruby, what did you do?”

To her credit, the woman in question winced, appearing semi-apologetic.

“You’ll like him, I promise.”

“Ruby, you did not-“

But she was cut off by another voice, this one distinctly male, warm and gravely and comfortable, coming from behind her.

“Hello, ladies.”

And familiar. Fuck.

She could feel her shoulders tense instantly, because she very much knew that lilting voice, the way it wrapped around her name intimately. In fact, she knew the way _he_ wrapped around her, the exact way his fingers felt in her hair or curled around her waist.

_Fuck._

Ruby was still wincing a bit, seeming to have picked up on Emma’s discomfort, though certainly not the reason why. Emma closed her eyes, not wanting to see what happened next. Because it couldn’t be happening, not this, not _now._

“Emma, this is Killian,” she began, but there was a slight gasp from behind Emma, and surely whatever Ruby saw made her close her mouth, brow furrowing.

“Swan,” he breathed, and goddamn it, there it was. Slowly, she peeled her eyes open, only to find him standing there in front of her.

He looked as good as he always had, dark hair swept to the side, bright blue eyes peering at her in disbelief. Yeah, well, she kinda felt like she had a right to hold the market on disbelief after all this time.

“You already know each other,” Ruby said, finally, and it sounded dim. But Emma couldn’t tear her eyes away from _him_. Slowly, she lifted her glass, swallowing what was left in one gulp. He winced at her, but remained silent, and she wanted to scream at him to explain, to leave, to disappear and never come back, just like he was good at.

Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to savor the warmth of the liquor as it burned through her.

“You could say that,” she eventually said, glancing morosely at her now-empty glass. “He’s kind of my ex-husband.”

\-----------------------------

Bloody fucking hell.

He should have known better. Red has _never_ had an idea that didn’t get him into some type of trouble, but this takes the cake.

He should have just said no thank you and moved on. Never come to this damned bar, never agreed to meet her friend Em, should have just _asked_ what that was short for, what her name _really_ was.

He should have just _thought_ and known better.

But now here he is, standing in front of Emma Swan.

She’s as beautiful as the last time he’d seen her, the strong bend of her shoulders the same as when she’d said goodbye to him on the steps of the courthouse.

The hurt in her eyes is the same, too. 

He can hardly hear Red as she excuses herself, something about more drinks and explanations, disappearing in the direction of the bar.

From the look in Emma’s eyes, the last thing she wants to do is explain, but to his surprise, she doesn’t leave.

Two years ago she would have left, would have probably knocked over her glass and stalked out the door, a threat on her lips if anyone were to dare to follow.

So he doesn’t know what to say when she doesn’t leave, when she doesn’t even look at him again, eyes fixed on the table in front of her. Her hair falls around her shoulders and covers part of her face, no longer in the tight curls she used to wear that made her look like a princess to him. Still, he can’t tear his eyes away from her no matter how much he wishes.

He can’t leave either, and before he knows it, he’s speaking.

“You look good.” The words are barely above a whisper, but somehow she hears him, because she looks up, a small grimace passing across her face.

“So do you,” she acknowledges with a small nod, and turns back to the pitted and marred wood. Another long silence falls between them, and he wills Ruby to return, because at least her questions would bring words instead of this silence.

But once again, Emma surprises him.

“What happened to teaching at Yale?” She asks the table, and he wants to laugh, wants to tell her _I missed you_ and _please can we go back_ and _I came home_ , but instead shrugs, forgetting she can’t see it.

“I missed Boston,” he finally says, and her eyes flicker up to him. Hurt swirls in them, and he wishes he could take it away. But she’d made it clear he had no right to her pain.

“So, what, now you work in a _diner?_ ” She scoffs at him, and he shakes his head.

“Just until the next semester starts at BU.”

She raises her eyebrows at him and picks up her glass, rolling it in her hands.

“That’s a step down, Jones. I would have expected you’d go back to Harvard,” she bites harshly, and he winces. He does kind of deserve that. After all, Harvard had been everything to him, it’d been the whole reason he’d come to America.

It was the reason for all of this, for everything. 

Until it had all fallen apart, until he realized he couldn’t stay in this city with her, knowing he could walk into her on the sidewalk or that he could see her bright little car on the street any day and he would break down again. 

(He’d left one dream behind because another had left _him_ , and he wants to hate her for it, but he can’t. He spent a long time trying to hate her.

It didn’t work.)

Her words hang in the air until Red returns with drinks galore, quickly passing Emma another whiskey and him a rum.

He tries not to worry when Emma downs half of hers before any of them can even speak. The pull of his own drink is strong, and he takes a sip, enjoying the way it steadies his nerves. Just like it always does when he thinks about her.

“So,” Ruby begins. “Explain.”

She glances between the two of them, a pointed look on her face. He turns to Emma, expecting her to speak first, but she remains stubbornly silent, eyes fixed once more on her drink. He sighs and rubs his forehead. 

“We met a long time ago. Got married. Got divorced. I moved to Connecticut. She kept the house.”

It’s as much of the truth as he can say, because technically they could still both go to jail if anyone ever found out what really happened. But it also hurts to remember the first time she’d let him hold her in his arms, the first time she’d let him into her bed. The first time he’d whispered those three little words onto her skin as she slept.

It all hurts if he thinks about it, so he doesn’t. He takes another swig of his drink instead. The burn feels good in his throat, almost as good as saying her name.

Ruby frowns at them both now, shoulders hunched as she tries to make sense of it.

“You never told me you were _married_ ,” she says quietly, and it’s clear she’s talking to Emma.

The woman in question shrugs loosely, sipping her drink.

“Not much to tell,” she mutters, glancing sideways at Killian. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Well, considering _he_ looks like a kicked puppy and _you_ look like you’d like to drown in a bottle of something very strong, I’d say it kind of is a big deal.”

“Don’t, Ruby,” the blonde snaps, setting her glass down. “It’s _nothing_ , and if you’ll excuse me, I need to get home.” She fumbles with her pocket, pulling out a wad of cash and dropping it on the table before she slides out of her chair, leaving her half-empty glass behind. 

The bell on the door tinkles, and she’s gone.

Again.

Ruby sighs, and he finishes off his rum.

\-----------------------------

_It feels surreal, moving into this big old house. Her house, now, she supposes; it says so on the deed, Emma Swan, plain as day. A home._

_She tries not to think about what she’s doing to get it, about the many levels of fraud she’s committing. Risking prison time, again, all for a practical stranger._

_And this house, she reminds herself. That’s what it’s all for. A place to settle down, somewhere that doesn’t have a rusty bathroom and broken oven. A place for her and the future._

_A knock on her door disturbs her thoughts, and she pauses her unpacking to go over and open it._

_It’s Killian, looking both nervous and excited all at once. She doesn’t say anything, just opens the door wider to let him in._

_“I start next week,” he says, sitting on her bed. It raises her hackles, but she forces herself to be okay. This agreement means a lot more than him sitting on her bed. In fact, she’s going to have to learn things about him that are a lot more intimate than she’d like, so she might as well get comfortable with him now,_

_“We’ll need to go to the court before then, get the papers started,” he adds, waiting for her to respond._

_She takes a deep breath and nods._

_He nods back at her, fingers awkwardly playing with her bedspread._

_“This will work out fine, Swan,” he says, catching her eyes. “One year, and you’ll be done with me, and we’ll both have what we want. One year, and you never have to see me again.”_

_“I know.” She manages a small smile, because in the end, it’s going to be worth it. A year isn’t that long, not when she’s spent twenty six of them moving from place to place. And after this, she’ll never have to move again._

_His grin is infectious, and he stands, reaching into his pocket for something. He digs around for a moment before producing what he was looking for, holding it out to her._

_The shiny metal of the key glimmers in the light._

_A future, that’s what all this represents. A new life, all in one little key._

_She’s smiling too when she takes it, their fingers brushing during the exchange._

_One year isn’t so long, especially when she thinks they could maybe be friends once it’s all said and done._

_Having a friend would be nice, she thinks, as she watches him turn and leave, shutting the door gently behind himself._

_She rubs her fingers over the grooves in the metal, thinking._

_Yes, this is a new start for sure._

__Emma wakes with a gasp, hands instantly going to her face, trying to scrub away the memories. She hasn’t had dreams like this in a long time, not since she started the remodel.

Not since she stopped thinking about the past and started thinking about the future.

Damn him for coming back.

Damn him to hell.

(She doesn’t get a wink of sleep the rest of the night.)


	2. Chapter 2

_Her back is to him when he comes in, and he doesn’t notice her stiffness until his arms are already wrapped around her waist, his chin against her shoulder._

_“Killian,” she murmurs, turning in his arms, stepping back as she pulled his hands away from her. “We need to talk.”_

_“What’s wrong, love?” She hasn’t pulled away from him in so long, he thought they were past it, past this. Past her insecurities._

_Maybe not._

_She shakes her head, hair brushing over her shoulders as she moves. There’s a folder on the counter and she reaches for it, flipping it open, fingering the top sheet before she hands the whole thing over to him._

_He doesn’t make it past the first few words, but really that’s all he needed to see._

__Petition for divorce.

_“Swan,” he breathes, but she’s already turned away from him, and he can’t move, thoughts racing._

_It’s been a year, yes, but this was never supposed to happen._

_He_ loved _her. He wanted more than one bloody year with her, and he’d told her as much, more than once._

_“Emma, love, what is this?” He knows his voice is breaking, but he can’t think, much less control this, control himself. She doesn’t say anything, just shakes her head and refuses to even look at him. “Swan,” he begs, reaching for her pulling at her arm, and she finally turns._

_Her eyes are red, but she radiates the same vibe she had the same day they’d met, a perfect fuck-off stance and a mask that’d make you think she never cared. He knows better, though, but so does she. She shakes off his hand, and juts her chin out at the folder._

_“It’s what we agreed on, Jones. One year. No more, no less. You get your green card, I get this house. And both of those are done.”_

_And he always knew this was a business transition, but that was what it had started out as. He thought they’d had more. He_ knew _it._

_She was supposed to know it too, he’d shown her so many times._

_“I don’t give a bloody fuck about what we agreed on, Emma,” he cried. “We’ve got so much more than that, we’ve got each other, I don’t care about the goddamn green card anymore and you know it. I care about you.”_

Her mask breaks, if only for a split second, and he sees how much she’s hurting and god, he wants to take it all away. He brushes her cheek, and she leans into it, he can feel it, it’s barely there but it’s there _. Her eyes flutter close, and she takes a deep breath, and he speaks before she can._

_“Just talk to me, love. We can talk about this.”_

_But whatever is wrong, that must have been the worst thing to say, because her eyes snap open, and she pulls away again. Her voice is hoarse and he know she’s ready to cry, but she doesn’t._

_“There’s nothing to talk about, Killian. Just sign your name and I’ll take care of the rest.”_

_And then she turns away and vanishes up the stairs, a door slamming distantly._

_“I’m not leaving, Emma!” he yells after her, but the house is silent behind her._

_“I’m not leaving,” he repeats to himself, and hurls the damned papers across the room._

__\-----------------------------

It’s late in the day when he finally drags himself out of bed, and thankfully his shift doesn’t start for a few more hours, because he’s pretty sure he’s dying.

God, he hasn’t been this hungover in years. Well two years and three months, if he’s counting. 

She has a bad habit of doing this to him, in fact, but he can’t exactly blame her entirely. Rum has been his downfall for a lot longer than he’s known Emma. 

But that kind of thinking about the rest of his past just makes him want to drink more, and he can’t be doing that, not if he wants to avoid thinking about _her_ and then it’s just a vicious cycle.

One he regrets allowing himself to engage in last night. After Emma had left, Ruby had tried to grill him, but he’d had nothing to say to her. It wasn’t even his story to tell and Emma was her friend first anyways. And so he’d finished his drink and had another. And another. 

And more, until he’d been alone and staring at the dark liquid in his glass, thinking rather upsettingly about how familiar this whole situation was to how they’d met in the first place. Friend setting them up? Check. Awkward meeting? Check. Her walking out? Also check.

Except that time he’d followed her, and it had been the best choice he’d ever made.

He debated following her again as he downed a handful of aspirin and a glass of water. He wanted to, he really did, but he was pretty damn sure she’d slam the door in his face if he tried.

Honestly, he had no idea what to do. 

She’d pushed and pushed and pushed until he’d given up and left, and now he _knows_ it was a mistake, but he can’t go back and fix it. He can’t go back and chose not to leave her like he promised he would. 

He wishes he _could_. 

Sighing, he scrubs at his face. He came back because he _missed_ her, but he hadn’t exactly had enough time to figure out what he would do when he saw her. He had wanted to go back to her, some grand gesture, something that would prove to her that he’d been wrong, that _she’d_ been wrong. That he still loved her.

But now that he’s seen her, seen how she just walked away, he doesn’t know why he thought it would work.

Emma is hurt, and she’s broken, and as much as he wishes he could say it’s all her own fault, he was the one who let her push him away. It had all been a test, and he’d failed. 

He’d failed _her_ , and then he’d ran.

He can’t even forgive himself, so he’s not sure how he expects her to do it either.

\-----------------------------

She _really_ wishes she wasn’t already finished with the demolition phase of things, because she desperately needs to smash something to tiny little bits.

Unfortunately, instead, she’s here on her hands and knees, carefully arranging tile after tile.

It’s doing very little to help with her grumpiness or her lack of sleep or her temper issues, and yet here she is. Huffing, she scoots around on her little knee pads to get a better angle on the stupid corner.

They’re just plain little squares, nothing too expensive, but they’re quickly revealing to be a pain in the ass to arrange. She’s never done this before, and naturally it’s driving her a little bit crazy. Everything she’d ever read had said it would be easy, or, at least, easier than this. She swipes at a loose hair, pushing it back behind her ear.

Of course, the blogs probably hadn’t taken account for the idea that your ex would walk into your life the day before you’re supposed to be carefully arranging tiny ceramic pieces. 

And that’s the crux of it, the thing she’s been avoiding all damn morning.

Killian is here, is back in Boston, apparently working at Granny’s diner, and going out for drinks arranged by _Ruby_.

She’s not sure which hurts more, the fact that he’s back, or the fact that apparently he’s ready to move on with some bimbo friend of Ruby’s. Or, worse, he’d already moved on plenty of times in the two years he’s been gone.

The thought of him with someone else, touching someone else, kissing someone else, makes her blood boil, makes her want to go back to smashing things. But she can’t and she doesn’t have any right to be mad because _she_ pushed him away and _she_ gave him the papers.

He only did what he was supposed to do all along.

She told herself for a long time that she’d done the right thing, that he had always been waiting for the year to be up so he could leave, and she was just beating him to the punch. It had hurt so much when she’d been _right_ , when he’d met her that day at the courthouse and signed it all away. She still remembers looking after him, watching him go and trying to not cry, trying to be as strong as she’d had to be when she’d first said yes to him.

By the time she’d gotten home, all his stuff was gone, and so was he.

And she hasn’t seen him since, not until last night.

He’d said he missed the city, missed Boston, but she knew the look in his eyes. She loved him once; she damn well knew what he looked like when he wanted her. But it _hurt_ , and he’d hurt her like that, left her alone and broken after she’d sworn it would never happen to her again. So she had a right to be angry, and as much as she loved Ruby, she had a right to never want to see him again.

She grunted, sitting back on her heels. She wasn’t getting anywhere with this, and the urge to destroy things was too great. Instead she stood and left the room, passing through the bedroom and down the stairs to the kitchen.

The bottle of jack called to her from the shelf behind the fridge as she reached for a glass, but she turned back to the fridge and got herself some water.

It didn’t exactly help as much as the whiskey would have, but it was probably better for her liver.

She walked into the living room and checked her phone, disappointed but not surprised to see any calls. As much as she didn’t want to talk about it, she kind of did want to spill her secrets to her best friend. She didn’t want to talk to Killian, but she needed to talk to _someone_. But Ruby had told her last night she’d be working today, and so she couldn’t exactly call her.

And she didn’t exactly have a lot of other friends. At least, not any that she could talk to about her pretty much arranged-slash-bought-and-paid-for marriage. Certainly none she could actually let herself _feel_ around.

There was a sound on her porch, and she lifted her head. Probably the mailman, it was about that time. But the footsteps didn’t leave, the shuffling sound lingering on the wooden planks.

She hoped it was some stupid salesman (did they even work on Saturdays? She had no idea), but she had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling that was only amplified when there was a rap on her door.

So she set her glass down on the table and turned to the door, hoping she was wrong. She’d give anything to meet some idiot trying to sell her a vacuum cleaner if it meant it wasn’t the one person she didn’t want to see.

Her stomach twisted painfully as she touched the door handle, and was utterly unsurprised when it swung open.

“Swan,” Killian said, eyes rising, hand dropping from where it been running through his already-messy hair.

And she couldn’t help it, she didn’t know what to do.

So she shut the door in his face, ignoring his protests and listening faintly to the sound of disappearing footsteps as she leaned heavily against the door, and tried not to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the shorter chapter this time but I think this was really the place to end it. I will do my best to update soon so I don’t leave you too long with the little sort of cliffhanger!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay with this! I unexpectedly got very very busy during December and had to focus my writing time on my secret santa gifts. But now I’m back! Expect updates more frequently from here out; the next chapter is already partially written.
> 
> Also, this chapter is entirely a flashback and hopefully will answer some of the questions I’ve gotten. I promise it isn’t what it seems and there’s a good reason for everything that happens.

A tickling sensation is the first thing that brings her to consciousness. Groaning, she blinks her eyes open only to find a pair of painfully blue ones staring back at her. There was a smile curling on his lips, and his finger hovered over her nose, the thing that had woken her revealing itself.

“Good morning sunshine,” he spoke quietly, voice wrapping around the words and smoothing over her.

Sunshine streamed through the curtains above the bed, indicating the sun was well on its journey for the day. She stretched and yawned, lifting her arms up above her head.

“What time is it?” She finally asked, settling again next to Killian.

The smile spread across his lips and he ducked his head, his lashes fluttering as he scratched at his neck.

“Way too late. Nearly nine, I think.”

“Ugh, that’s not late enough.” She huffs, thinking about when she’d finally gotten in last night. Three am and the guy was finally in jail, and she’d been dead on her feet when she’d finally dragged herself home.

Killian had been lying in bed, a book propped open on his chest, his head fallen off to the side as quiet snores drifted out of the room.

To be honest, it had been pretty damn adorable.

To be honest, _he_ was adorable. And ever since they’d done this, become a _them_ instead a you and me, she’d been increasingly unable to find a reason why she’d ever held herself back from him.

He was kind and sweet and honestly did seem to care about her. It still scared her sometimes, the way he looked at her, the way it seemed like everything that had led them to this situation was a distant memory, a convenient set of circumstances that only meant to lead to this.

He was still looking at her, that soft look on his face. His eyes didn’t search hers, trying to uncover her secrets; they waited patiently.

“Just thinking about us,” she replys to his unasked question.

“What about us, love?” He quirks an eyebrow at her, but she doesn’t miss the small undercurrent of tension in his voice.

He still doubted her, and she, unfortunately, had given him plenty of reasons to. Their first kiss still followed her around, the way they had pulled apart, how she’d _ran_ , swearing it was a one-time thing over and over again. Or the first time he’d confessed how he’d felt. Or a million other little things she’d done in the past few months to try to push him away before she let herself get hurt.

And yet, here he was. Not hurting her.

“You’re adorable. And…I like you.”

It was weak, and he knew it, but he had the decency to merely chuckle at her, his hand tangling itself in her hair as he pulled her closer.

“I like you too,” he murmurs, his lips barely brushing hers before he completed the circuit and pressed them together.

It was electric, as it always was. Gone was the playful hint of his voice, the soft look in his eyes. But she loved it. He kissed her like he’d been starved of her, mouth opening with a gasp and a gentle flick of his tongue against hers. His teeth scraped her bottom lip, and she moaned, very suddenly aware of his bare shoulders and the warmth of his body as he pressed closer to her.

As if he could sense her thoughts, and he probably could, he wrapped one arm around her waist and drug her even closer to him, tangling their legs together in a mess of blankets and pajamas. His other hand still lingered in her hair, thumb caressing her cheek with every brush of his tongue against hers.

Tangled up like this, it wasn’t hard to admit that one of the reasons they worked together so well was because of _this_ , the tension that would snap and then pull them together into each other time and time again. And he felt it too, she knew, because he began to roll, settling himself on top of her and between her legs.

His stubble scraped across her cheek as he nosed down her jaw, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses along the skin there. He found that spot with ease, the one that made her writhe and moan, and attacked it relentlessly. His hand slipped up her side, shoving aside her simple t-shirt with ease. 

She twisted under him, hips bucking against his unconsciously as he nipped at her pulse point and palmed a breast, squeezing and thumbing at a nipple. A whimper slipped past her lips when he switched tactics, both hands gripping the waistband of her pants as he reared back, just enough to yank them down past her knees and shuffle forward past them.

The cool air hit her skin hard, but it was soon replaced with his body, warmth sinking down on her as he pressed kisses against her bare belly. One hand anchored her hip still, the other slipping between her legs until he found her folds, already wet and slippery.

It made him smug, and she could feel the grin he pressed into her thigh, but she growled and shoved her hands into his hair, urging him forward.

He acquiesced quickly, breathing hot on her skin a moment before his tongue pressed where his fingers had been, dragging it along her entrance and up to her clit. She rolled her hips into his face and he chuckled, the vibrations setting her alight under him. 

A finger circled under his tongue, a teasing motion that had her panting and begging before he slipped it inside of her, immediately crooking the digit and rubbing it in time with his mouth. 

He’s got skill, and it should probably bother her that he already knows how to play her like a fiddle, but she’s too busy saying his name like a chant to care. His beard burns her thigh and she doesn’t care, relishes in the irregular breaths he pants over her skin.

He murmurs her name and a curse as he slips another finger inside of her, stretching and pressing and his mouth is ferocious on her. Heat curls up her spine and twists into her chest, locking itself in as she takes a deep breath and lets go.

Her fingers clench tight against his head and her voice gets hoarse from words that would embarrass her mother (if she had one) when she comes. 

He’s grinning when she looks at him, lazy blinks bringing him into focus. It’s belied by the hot press of him against her bare leg, and when he kisses her again she can taste herself and feel him pressing against her.

She rolls her hips and clutches at his sides, and they both gasp when the head of his cock catches inside of her.

One shallow thrust and they’re together, bodies arcing into each other. 

He gasps her name, quiet like a prayer, and she lets him, doesn’t try to explain it away in her head as he ruts desperately against her and she meets his hips with her own, and it’s a short messy affair that she doesn’t mind because she thinks she’s starting to _care_ about him.

After, when his body is still warm on top of hers, she twists her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and he murmurs that he loves her. 

And it doesn’t bother her. 

She falls asleep pressed deep in his arms, and dreams of nothing.

\-----------------------------

Much later, after Killian has left and the house is quiet, she crawls out of bed. There's a note on the nightstand telling her he'll see her tonight, that he's got grading to do at work, which is just fine with her. She's been meaning to clean out the other spare room and go through some of the stuff in the attic and bring it down for him to look at, and since her latest skip was safely behind bars now, she had the time.

Even though it's been ten months, she's still getting used to this house. Three bedrooms, living room and kitchen and beautiful bathrooms with tile everywhere and an ancient claw-foot tub, more room than she's ever had in her life. 

At first it was weird, trying to fill all the space up with things to make it hers. Killian had told her he really didn't care what she did with what had been there when they moved in; he hadn't even ever met this distant great-aunt of his, and when he'd found the house was his, he hadn't exactly known what to do with it either. Still, some of it had just felt _right_ to keep around, so she had.

There's little touches, things that make her think of what it would have been like to grow up in a house like this, with a mother and father and siblings and grandparents and a whole lively family living in it. 

So while she doesn't exactly _love_ the little lace doily in the hall, she keeps it.

It's weird, going through other people's stuff, but this woman had been dead for years and years, so she tries not to feel too bad about it as she climbs the stairs to the attic.

Light streams in from the window across the way, illuminating way too many cobwebs for Emma's tastes, but still, as she surveys the room, she finds she likes it. The quick peek she'd had so long ago didn't really do it justice. It was beautiful and bright and would make a perfect add-on bedroom one day, if she was so inclined.

The little orphan inside of her still dreamed of a life like this, a family making room especially for her, clearing out an attic only to paint it pink and purple and add a bed just for her.

Shaking away the thoughts, she ascends the final step to stand on the plain boards.

There really isn't a lot in here, a few boxes in one corner, covered in dust, and some others on the opposite side. Since it really doesn't matter where she starts, she just heads in that direction. These boxes are newer, less dust than the others, and she wonders idly how long they've been here.

One stands out, though, and she reaches for it curiously. Only a thin film of dust clings to it, and there's a swipe mark where someone recently cleared away more dirt and dust. It's not large, just big enough to pull onto your lap, so she does, carefully lifting the cardboard flaps.

Inside, all she finds is a pile of letters, blank envelopes that bear no stamps or addresses. 

Now extremely curious, she picks up one, turning it over to find the flap open, a peek of simple white paper inside.

Part of her knows she shouldn’t; it's someone else's business, but, she rationalizes, whoever it is must be long gone If it's stuck up here with old things. So she slides her fingers inside and pulls out the paper, unfolding it carefully.

The name at the top catches her eye, and she instantly knows she should stop, but she's already reading the rest of it, and the words tumble across the page in rapid succession until all she feels is a dull shock reverberating through her.

_Dearest Killian;_

_I cannot wait to see you again. My heart aches to think of how long we must be separated before you can come home to me. I know distance and our commitments keep us apart, but I miss you. I know soon we will both be free and then we can be together. Your last reply spoke of how anxious you are to leave things behind you and join me, and I'm happy to tell you, I already have just the place picked out for us. By the water, of course; I know how it soothes you, and of course you shall miss the mistress who keeps you from me. Don't worry; I'm not jealous. Not yet, at least. I know soon your commitments with her will be done._

_Until then I am forever yours._

_Milah_

It doesn't register with her, not properly, until her fingers are pulling another letter out, eyes skipping across the page at more declarations of love, more talk of running away together. All of them the same, signed by a Milah, no last name.

It doesn't seem _real_. Not when he'd held her in his arms just hours ago and told her how much he loved her. 

But it is plain as day, the way this woman writes to _her_ husband, the way she speaks so affectionately of the bond they share. If it wasn't making Emma so damned sick she might actually find it sweet. Devastation seeps into her, her own mind betraying her as she re-reads the letters on the page through bleary-eyes.

And if she hadn't let herself fall for him in the first place, she wouldn't be here, tears stinging in her eyes as she quickly throws the empty envelopes and half-folded letters back in the box, uncaring of the mess as she shoves it back where it had been. She finds I impossible shove what she's learned away as well, though, the way this woman she didn't even know was so affectionate with Killian, the way she spoke of Emma as some distraction to be gotten rid of.

The pain burns through her chest, a deep ache that tears at her insides. This other woman knows what it feels like to touch his skin, to feel his lips on hers. 

She was trusting him, maybe even starting to...care about him, to _allow_ herself to feel around him. And now this.

Proof that she's only ever been a meal ticket to him, a way for him to get his place at the school and in this country and then on with the rest of his life.

It settles bitterly in her stomach, and she wants to rage, to yell and scream at him and demand answers, but she just can't find it. They were never supposed to be more than a business arrangement, never supposed to _need_ to be more. She got too carried away with whatever game he's been playing, and lost herself, her protection, in the process.

Mostly she's just angry at herself, and it hurts. To know she was wrong( _again_ ). That she let herself be pulled into a fantasy world where one man for once had eyes for only her.

She sits there on the cold floor for a long time, everything slowly turning numb until there's only one thing left for her to do. 

Slowly she pulls herself up and heads back downstairs, thoughts racing. Already in her mind she's playing out answers to the questions they will surely have, _we just grew apart_ and _maybe we got married too soon_ and _I don't know if we ever really knew each other._

She reaches the landing on their floor and pulls out her phone, a quick search through her contacts bringing her the name she's looking for. Being a bail bondswoman has its perks, and one of those is knowing a damn good lawyer who can pull all the paperwork together under the radar. 

Two months left, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

That's what she tells herself as the line rings and then through the small click as the other person picks up.


	4. Chapter 4

It doesn't take her long for her back to start aching and her feet to start feeling the cold from the wooden floor, sitting as she is pressed up against the hard wood. It hurts, but it almost feels like punishment for herself, for slamming the door in his face. He probably was full of apologies and explanations and she wanted to hear every last one of them just so she could turn around and throw them in his face.

She felt horrible, like every ugly vindictive ex-wife stereotype she hated. And worst of all, she didn't have any good reason for it. She'd seen their arrangement through to the end and done her part. There had never been any promise of being faithful or anything ridiculous like that, both of them knowing it was all just for show. She had only done exactly as she'd promised.

And she felt like shit for it.

Fighting him had been one of the hardest things she'd ever done, forcing herself to not be swayed by all the beautiful words he'd spouted to try and keep them together, like he wanted everything both ways. It had confused her then, thinking he should have been ___happy___ to leave her if the letters were anything to go by, but she'd known plenty of men who were ___more___ than happy to have two women waiting for them.

It had never felt like his style, and part of her wanted to believe it had all been one big misunderstanding, but she still could see his face when she'd said the woman's name, the way he'd looked like she'd slapped him across the face. The way he'd closed up then, pulling himself into a tight ball of whatever he was feeling.

The way he hadn't really fought her after that. The way he'd disappeared into their room and she hadn't seen him again until they'd said goodbye on the steps.

It still hurt, if she let it. 

She really, really tried not to let it. Hell, she'd made (mostly) casual conversation with him at the bar last night, and she'd felt pretty proud of herself at the time. Only Ruby's probing had sent her over the edge, and she already knew she would have to fess up eventually to her friend.

It was good for her to be alone, and him returning to her life was as good a reminder as any why she ___was___ alone, why she didn't trust anyone anymore.

She can see the bottle of whiskey she’d rejected before from here on the floor, but the urge is gone, replaced by a weariness she hasn’t felt in a long time.

Slowly, she pulls herself to her feet and grabs her phone, bringing it and her water with her as she takes the stairs slowly, going up past the rooms on the second floor and further. The attic door moves with a squeak, and she makes mental note to get some WD-40 on it. Across the room, lit up in what little sunlight comes through the windows, is her bed and the half-finished book she’d laid on the nightstand last night after she'd finally given up on sleep and gotten out of bed.

The wood is cool under her bare feet, and so she makes a detour, dragging herself over to the chest of drawers to pull out a pair of socks. When she finally settles on the bed she’s as toasty as she’ll ever be, and she leans back against her pillows. 

She’s sure Ruby will be calling as soon as her shift is over, but in the mean time she’s going to find out exactly what happens next to her intrepid heroine, allow herself to sink into the fiction and forget about reality.

\-----------------------------

If Killian wasn't such a hardened military veteran, showing up to work with Ruby would probably have scared him.

To be honest, it still scared him a little.

The woman was a force of nature all unto her own, all red lips and fingernails and tiny little skirts no matter the weather. 

Speaking of the weather, it was absolutely freezing, and regardless of if he wanted to or not, he needed to get inside. He swung the door open and prayed. Above his head, the little bell tinkled, alerting her to his presence, but thankfully she was with customers and only shot him a hard look before returning to the elderly couple sat in front of her.

It distracted her long enough for him to get to the back and start shucking his jacket, swapping it out for an apron.

The day cook, Leroy, harrumphs at him and shakes his head, but Killian knows better than to pursue whatever is bothering the older man. Likely Ruby, if he's honest, and he'd rather not think about her this afternoon.

"Good afternoon, Hook," she says, appearing as if on cue, summoned by his thoughts. "Sleep well?" Her far-too-chipper grin grates on him, and now it's his turn to mumble out a response that sounds vaguely like 'fine'.

And as though nothing is different, she launches into the table's order, rattling off the ridiculous shorthand that had taken him months to learn correctly. He starts prepping the order while Leroy is putting his stuff away and getting ready to leave, a quick "See ya, sister," thrown over his shoulder for Ruby before he disappears out of the kitchen.

Leroy still hasn't quite warmed to him, and odds are he never will. The world is getting colder outside, fall fading into winter, and by Christmas Killian will be gone, preparing for classes and organizing his notes.

Ruby, on the other hand, had warmed to him rather instantly. They had flirted back and forth relentlessly, until Granny had yelled across the empty diner at them, and that had toned it down a little bit. She'd given him his ever-present nickname; Hook, after the terrible pirate impressions he did at two in the morning to an empty restaurant. She was the one he was closest to by far here. Or had been, before last night. 

He could tell that Emma and Ruby had gone way back; Ruby was always mentioning her friend Ems, and her constant quest to set her up with the right man. But not as far back as Emma and Killian, apparently, because she knew nothing about their relationship. He wasn't sure how it made him feel, really, to know that Emma had probably forgotten all about them the day after they weren't a them anymore. Well, he knew it hurt. But he didn't know if he was quite _allowed_ to feel hurt about it.

"So," Ruby began, interrupting his thoughts, her red nails drumming out a pattern on the steel in front of her. "Tell me about you two."

He's got two options; play dumb and only extend the inevitable, or cut her off at the head. 

He goes for the latter, sighing as he flips the pancakes on the griddle in front of him. Only old people order pancakes at four in the afternoon, he's discovered, either them or college kids who are so high they're not even sure where they are.

"There really isn't a lot to say, Ruby." He hates talking about this. For all that Emma clearly hasn't told anyone about them, he really hasn't either. It all went in a box in his head and only came out when he was too drunk or too sober, and never around anyone else. "We got married quick, I guess we really didn't know each other. It just...didn't work out."

Ruby's eyes narrow. "Emma isn't really the type for a quickie wedding."

"You're right." But he can't exactly admit that it wasn't because they were in _love_ , but instead because he really needed to stay in the country. "But it happened anyways."

The woman is still squinting dangerously at him when the bell tinkles and a man wanders in. 

"I'm coming back for you, Jones," she mutters under her breath before turning and plastering a bright smile on her face for the customers.

He merely sighs and returns to the bacon sizzling next to him. He's only trying to keep things quiet because Emma had seemed like she didn't want to tell the story last night, and to be honest, he's not exactly sure _what_ story he should tell, because he's pretty damn sure Ruby isn't buying what he's selling. 

Despite all that's happened between them, he doesn't want to sabotage Emma's friendship, and he doesn't want to reveal anything she'd be uncomfortable with. It's never been a problem before, people almost always nodding sympathetically when he'd been forced to bring up the topic. But this is Ruby, and she can see right through the both of them.

Thankfully, more customers arrive and they're both kept busy until her shift is over and she's throwing her jacket across her shoulders. 

"Don't think I'm finished with you yet," she tells him, poking him with one perfectly manicured finger. All he can muster is a tight smile and a goodbye before she's out the door, and he finally breathes a deep sigh of relief. 

It doesn't occur to him until he's finishing his own shift up in the wee hours of the morning that once she knows the truth, she'll probably hate him too.

\-----------------------------

True to form, her best friend is on her doorstep at just past four, one hand wrapped around a bottle of wine and the other on her hip.

Emma lets her in quietly and makes a detour to the kitchen to grab a couple glasses before joining Ruby on the couch.

"I brought plenty of libations, so it's time to spill, princess," Ruby begins, already pouring two hefty glasses. "And none of the 'we had a quickie wedding and grew apart' bullshit tall dark and handsome already tried to feed me."

The mention of Killian sends a pang through her chest, and she wants to ask about him, but bites her lip to keep her mouth shut. Ruby notices, of course, but doesn't say anything, just takes a generous sip and leans back expectantly, one eyebrow raised in query.

Yeah. It was only a few hours ago that she'd been desperately wishing she could tell Ruby the story, but now that she's here her throat has closed up and she feels absolutely wrecked. Her book had ended on a cliffhanger, the heroine safe but her fake-lover in the hands of the enemy, and it had done nothing to make her feel better.

She swirls the wine in the glass and takes a big a sip as she can manage, enjoying the tang and warmth that immediately settles in her belly. Liquid courage is about all the courage she's going to get, so she tucks her feet up under her and starts at the very beginning.

The arranged 'date'. The awkward meeting, and then the bomb of why he was interested in her (Ruby had gasped appropriately, questions bubbling that Emma had shushed with a hand, promising she'd get to it). The papers and the moving and then...them. She left out all the nights she'd fallen asleep scared he was going to get up and walk away, that he was going to go back to his room and pretend it never happened. When she gets to the letters, she hesitates, but Ruby presses her ("Seriously, _why the hell_ would you give that up, Emma?") until the whole thing spills out, the letters and the divorce until she's back exactly where she was before, just with a house to hold all the emptiness this time.

Her friend is quiet for a long time, the bottle of wine long gone.

"Oh, Emma," is all she says at first, and then, as though it explodes out of her, "I'm going to _kill_ him." She even stands, as though she plans to go do it right now, but Emma drags her back to the couch and they collapse in a pile of bodies.

"No you're not. It's not a big deal, Ruby. Seriously. We never said wedding vows or anything like that. We didn't promise to be _faithful_ ," she says, and can't help the venom packed into that one little word. Not that she resents it, not that she _cares_ , all she ever cared about was that he didn't tell her, didn't even care enough to try to fix it. That he had no excuse or explanation.

Ruby looks at her like she's grown two heads.

"Uh, it doesn't matter. You don't act married to one person and keep sending love letters to someone else," she says, like it makes the most sense in the world. And it does, but it's not right. It would be easier to call Killian a con, a liar, a cheater, all the things she'd thought at first, but it's much harder to face the actual truth: she agreed to be the means to an end, and there was never an expectation of anything else. She wasn't enough, one way or the other, to make it work for real.

She doesn't say any of that, just shrugs.

"It doesn't matter, Ruby. It was years ago, and we said our goodbyes a long time ago. It's not a big deal."

The woman in question snorts as though the very idea of it offends her. "Yeah, whatever. He's fucking _pining_ for you, you know. You can see it in his eyes. I tried to set him up so many times and he turned down every one of them except for you, Emma. But all this time he'd done _that_ and just _left._ Who does he think he is?" Ruby fumes, apparently all affection for the man long gone.

"This is why I didn't tell you. I knew you would've stalked him all the way across state lines just to give him a piece of your mind. But it's not worth it. The past is the past, and trust me, it's not about to become the present again," Emma says. She wants her to understand, to try to convince her it doesn’t matter, but it's clear it's not exactly working. 

Her head hurts, from the wine and the topic of discussion, and she takes a deep breath, easing it out gently.

"You need to promise me you're not gonna go assault him, Ruby."

Her friend snorts, but raises her hand and says in a sing-song voice, "I pledge not to tear the skin from bones on one Killian Jones."

The ridiculousness makes Emma giggle just a little bit, enough to release some of the tension built up in her shoulders. Judging from the quiet smile Ruby wears, it was exactly as she intended.

"But on to better topics, now," Ruby begins. "How's the tiling going?"

Emma's answering groan is all the response she needs.

\-----------------------------

"Killian Jones, I swear if you don't start cleaning the hell up after yourself, I'm going to stop cooking you breakfast," she yells across the house when she finds the dirty sock behind the couch.

There's a distant laugh from somewhere upstairs, and soon there's a mop of dark hair peeking down the staircase.

"I think the fact that you're only finding it now when I left it there a week and a half ago speaks to my cleanliness, Swan." He tosses a wink her way before disappearing again, and the sound of the vacuum on the second floor resumes.

She rolls her eyes to herself and chunks the offending article of clothing across the room, towards the stairs. He can pick it up when he comes back down again.

The domesticity of the whole thing is charming, and it warms her heart a little that they've managed this, two very different people with very different lives living under one roof without destroying each other. Even if it is what it is, it's still nice. 

She's never had a roommate before(unless you count jail, which she doesn't), and it had taken some getting used to at first. The blaring sound of his alarm clock across the hall when she'd only gotten in from chasing a skip two hours before was their first test, but he'd apologized profusely and promised he'd turn it down. She was mostly just glad they didn't have to share a bathroom; she kept the one in the master suite nice and clean and perfectly organized, but the one down the hall from his room was a mess most of the time.

But aside from that, it was good. He did the dishes when she cooked and knew where the trash can was. He bought his own groceries and did half the chores.

Hell, it was better than good. It was great. It was something Emma had never had before.

Sometimes, when they're both curled up on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and Netflix, it feels like it could even be _more_ maybe. His fingers press against hers for just a heartbeat longer than they need to, and it's hard to watch the screen more than him as he scarfs down the popcorn and offers commentary on every movie they watch.

It's frustrating, the little spark they share, because some days she swears she just wants to climb him like a tree. But other days she _knows_ better. Nothing good could come from going further, from being this to being _that_. 

The line is blurred even further when they get junk mail addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Jones and she finds herself realizing she doesn't mind it so much, especially when his eyes crinkle and the corners of his lips turn up in a smile as he teases her.

The low rumble of the vacuum directly overhead disturbs her thoughts, and she shakes her head. No point in thinking about it. Everything is going well, and they've still got eight months to go. She's not going to jinx herself and risk all of this just because he's grown on her.

No, this is what they'll be. Roommates, husband and wife, whatever they had to be, but above all, friends. She could handle being friends. It didn't hurt when friends amicably parted ways at the end of their time together.

Friends is easy. Friends is simple. Friends is _good_.

She tells herself that until she's pretty sure she believes it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, this is really really a huge delay. I'm sorry to everyone who has asked about this and begged for more; it's been a hell of a year. But I'm back hopefully, and my muse is enjoying writing this story once again.

Ruby somehow manages to avoid speaking to him for a week. It's far beyond what he ever thought she would be capable of, and judging by the looks she gives him as she monotone recites orders at the wall beside his head, far less than she'd like to do be doing. 

It's so bad that even Granny notices, snapping at Ruby to actually do her job once in a while, but, as usual when it comes to Ruby, she practically ignores the instruction and carries on doing exactly what she's been doing. 

It only comes to a head when Granny pulls him aside and bluntly informs him that he needs to work out whatever issue they're having, because it's affecting the business and she can't have that. He knows she wouldn't fire him; working for Granny is practically becoming part of the family to her, but he already has one Lucas woman angry with him, the last thing he needs is _two_. 

So, the next lonely late-night shift they have together, when she's off at the register counting bills and there isn't a customer in sight, he takes a deep breath, and steps out behind the bar. 

She, predictably, doesn't acknowledge his existence, nails clacking against the drawer as she picks up the stack of twenty dollar bills and begins flipping through them. 

He clears his throat roughly, but no dice. Looks like he's talking to the back of her head, then. He focuses on the bright red stripe of hair that is quintessentially Ruby. 

"Listen, love, I assume Emma has talked to you, and I can't imagine what you think of me for leaving her, but I probably do deserve it." He gets a guff harrumph, one all-too reminiscent of her grandmother. It's probably the best acknowledgement he's gonna get, so he continues. "I know you don't want to talk to me, but I want to make this right, with both of you. Please, tell me how I can do that." 

The diner is quiet, only the occasional car passing by breaking the silence. 

Just when he's resolved that he's done all he can, she speaks. 

"I honestly thought you were a good guy, Killian," she says softly, not turning. "We get so many bros in here, leering and hitting on me and talking about their side chicks and just...the worst. You've never been like that, not once, and you've even stood up to them quite a bit." She shuts the cash drawer, and faces him. "I know we all have a past. I know I do. But you cheated on my best friend and broke her heart. Even if you try to tell yourself it wasn't really cheating, it was to her. And that's a big deal to me. The only reason I haven't torn you limb from limb is because she said I couldn't. So, no. I don't think there's anything you can do to make it right." 

Her shoulders are set, arms crossed, and yeah, he knows when to step away from a confrontation, but he's too busy being shocked to do much more than gape openly at her. 

She notices, and her face shifts to something annoyed. 

"Don't act all surprised; she wasn't going to keep your deep dark secret from me," she snaps at him, and it seems to permeate through the fog. 

"I  _never_  cheated on her, Ruby," he says, trying to push as much earnestness as he can into the words. He has no idea why Emma would think that of him; why she would assume he had ever been anything but honorable with her. They had fought, sure, over Milah, over the fact that he still loved her, that he would  _always_  love her, but never once had he strayed, regardless of the legitimacy of their vows. 

"That tattoo on your arm tells a different story, buddy," she shoots right back, and the mark in question tingles under her gaze and he resists the urge to cover it. It had been one of his rather impetuous decisions, late one night after he'd been wallowing in the rum and the loss of the only two women he'd ever cared for. Resentment at Emma for blaming him for still loving Milah had bubbled up, and he'd made the choice then and there to commemorate the woman he'd never have again. There's another one, on his shoulder blade, of a small swan, done much later, when the regret had burned deep in his veins. But she can't see that one; no one has. 

"I got this  _after_  Emma and I separated. Bloody hell, the fact that I even still loved Milah was too much for her, I knew that, I would have never actually gone out and slept with someone else!" His voice was rising, desperation definitely still coloring his words, and his mind was swirling, jumping from one thing to another. Did Emma truly think he had been with someone else? Why would she think that? Was it the late nights spent at the school? Had it ever truly been about Milah, or had that been a smokescreen?  

He'd known Emma was guarded, that it would be so easy to break her heart, but he'd always assumed that they would never have worked out; his heart had been Milah's first, and a small part of it would always be hers. He didn't blame Emma for wanting it all to herself; how could he when he knew her past? But he hadn't been ready, then, to let go of his first love. 

And that was why he'd walked away, that was why he'd agreed to the divorce. 

Not because of some cheating. 

He must have been lost deep in his own mind, because Ruby was shaking him, her hand like a vice around his upper arm. 

"Hook, she found the love letters between you two. You seriously think I'm going to believe you about  _anything_? I may not have her superpower, but I can smell a lie." 

He barely heard the last few words, his mind spinning away. The letters, the letters he and Milah had written so long ago, when he'd been in the Navy. The letters that had always sat in the same place in the attic, undisturbed until he'd packed up and left. The letters where they'd poured their hearts and souls out to each other. But it had been clear then, so many mentions of the Navy and his ports of call, surely Emma would have known they were practically ancient, surely she would have realized what they were about. 

But now...now he understands. She didn't realize it. And that was why she'd lashed out at him, why she'd pushed and pushed, why she knew Milah's name, why she'd even brought up his long-lost love. 

She'd thought he was lying to her, that he didn't care, and she'd reacted just the way he would have expected her to; first pushing him away, and then shutting herself off from the hurt and the pain. 

A cold rock settles in his stomach; he wants to cry and rail and drink himself into a stupor, because he'd failed her. He had never thought to ask her more, to push for more answers; he'd been so busy buried until his own inadequacies and sorrow that he hadn't gotten to the truth. If he hadn't been so damn selfish he might still have Emma now. His whole life might be different. He could have saved her, saved himself, from the heartbreak. 

But he'd failed her. Just like he'd failed his brother, just like he'd failed Milah, just like he'd failed every person his god-forsaken foolish self had ever loved. 

He stood there, unaware of himself, wallowing quite deep, until the bell above the door tinkled and he realized he was alone, Ruby moving across the diner to greet the likely-drunk group of college-aged young adults who had wandered in. 

For the rest of the night, he moved on autopilot, thinking only of the bottle of rum and the judgmental face in the mirror that awaited him at home. 

\----------------------------- 

Emma has been quiet all evening, twisting her napkin in her lap at dinner like a teen who just got their first poor report card. She'd said maybe two words to him, and has kept her gaze firmly planted on the food. 

It's not normal. He hasn't really had a moment with her since yesterday morning; when he'd arrived home, she'd already been in bed, and when he'd awoken this morning, she'd been gone, a small note informing him that she'd had a meeting for work. 

Normally, Emma would have been happy to see him; a tired smile and a warm hug his greeting when he arrived home. Instead, there was a collection of take-out on the dining table, and hollow shell of a woman who greatly resembled his wife. 

Her food was a cold pile on her plate before she finally spoke. 

"Do you love me, Killian?" The words were quiet, almost timid. Very much unlike the Emma he'd always known. 

"Of course I-" he began, but she raised a hand. 

"Do you really?" She took a deep steadying breath, and finally looked at him. "Do you love me as much as Milah?" 

He gaped. He...hadn't been expecting that. Of all things... never that. Milah was long buried and in the ground, a world away, and though he would always love her, Emma was his wife now. He wanted to tell her as much, but she continued. 

"That's what I thought." Her face fell and she slipped out of the seat, gathering her plate and cup. "I know about her. I know I probably can't compare." 

"Emma, listen," he stood as well, moving to intercept her. "I love  _you_ , darling." 

She didn't look at him as she dumped her food in the bin and turned to rinse the dishes. Finally, she turned, her arms crossed, her armor pulled tight across her face. Gone was the woman he'd loved making smile; this was the woman who chased bail jumpers for a living. 

"But you love  _her_ , too. Look me in the eyes and tell me that you don't love her." 

The words stung, and his mind was still spinning. How did she even know about Milah? That part of him had been left behind in London a long time ago, and the last time he'd drunk himself into a stupor over it had been when he'd found out his visa wasn't being renewed. He was happy with Emma. He thought of Milah occasionally, and the tiny corner of his heart where she lived now, but the past was gone, and there was nothing he could do about it. 

But he also couldn't lie, and not just because she'd know. 

Her eyes narrowed, and the desire to argue left of him. 

"This isn't a fight, Killian. It is what it is. I just...wanted to know. And now I do." 

She brushed past him, and he was left staring at the sink, listening to her footsteps climb the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we have answers! Sort of, at least. A tragedy of miscommunication between two people that, as canon has shown us recently, there have been many.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short and pretty angsty and really mostly just sets up the grand finale. Also, beware, this chapter contains past Millian/Killian moping over Milah’s death.

It's been a slow week for bail jumpers, really. It has its pros and cons though.

Cons: She isn't able to take her anger out on criminals.

Pros: She _is_ able to take her anger out on her bathroom.

To her own amazement, the tile had ended up going down better than she expected, and she was ready to move on to the shower walls. For that, she had sheets of mini-tiles, and a better plan. She had this.

She was a strong independent woman who didn't need a man, especially one named Killian Jones.

That was the other upside; she'd kept busy enough since the disaster that was accidentally being dragged onto a blind date with her ex-husband that she hadn't thought about him too much. She'd managed to buy groceries, tile the bathroom, do some research for one of her longer-haul marks, and finish the book series she'd been reading. It had been a productive week, and she'd only thought about him a couple times, if you didn't count now.

She hadn't spoken again with Ruby either, the other woman busy with the diner and studying. She was proud, and more than a little bit jealous, of her friend going back to school, but she had made her peace long ago that more wasn't going to do a damn thing for her. Besides, at the time she'd told herself she was married to a professor. She could have private classes whenever she wanted.

It hadn't worked out that way, obviously, but Emma was stubborn. She'd made up her mind that school wasn't for her when she was seventeen; she wasn't going to change it now that she was nearly thirty.

Especially now that it seemed Jones would be working at BU, which would have been where she'd go, if she was going to.

She scrubs at her face, pressing down until she sees fireworks behind her eyes. She's thinking about him again, and it was just bringing it all back.

As though it knew she needed a solid distraction, her phone rang, the screen lighting up with her boss's number, a sure sign that her services were needed somewhere.

Maybe she would get to take her anger out on some criminals, after all.

\-----------------------------

Killian was drunk. Again.

He had the day off, thank god, and was well into the purchases he'd made the night before at the twenty-four hour liquor store after his shift.

It was barely noon, and he'd slept fitfully when he'd arrived home; no matter how much he'd drunk, it hadn't helped. And when he'd woken, he'd drunk some more.

He felt like such a fool, in enough ways that it didn't make sense to count them anymore. He'd been a fool the day he'd proposed to Emma, the ridiculous plan still new and fragile between them, and he'd been a fool every day since he'd let her walk away from him.

And that didn't even begin to cover his life before her; the rain and tears burning his eyes as he'd watched his brother's ship disappear into the waves, the numbness he'd felt when he'd found Milah's gravestone.

So, it was well established; Killian Jones was a fool. And a failure. And he would pay for both for the rest of his life, probably.

A very prominent part of him wanted to go to Emma and explain, make her see her mistake, his mistake, whatever, and just....understand. But he was conscious enough to recognize that she hadn't wanted to see him when he was sober; the odds of her even opening the door to his absolutely plastered self were lower than his chances of escaping cirrhosis.

Instead, the self-loathing was having an absolute field day.

He knew he was being overly dramatic, but part of him still couldn't believe it. Everything had ended because of a simple misunderstanding. He'd tried, after she'd brought the papers home, to talk to her, to get to the root of it all, but she'd been cold, worse than angry, worse than anything, just...dead. Like the light had gone out in her eyes, and nothing he did could bring it back. He understood why, now, but it did little to make him feel better. If he'd only known what tack to take, which words would pull her back to him.

But he hadn't and now it was probably too late, and all he had left to show for it was a broken heart and not much else.

His eyes drifted to the haphazard pile of boxes on the other side of his meagre apartment; everything he owned was in this very room with him, including the one box that held everything he had left from his life before coming to America. He'd burned his uniform, but he still had a few trinkets from his days in the navy, as well as his brother's insignia and few belongings. There were Milah's letters, and a copy of her obituary, the only evidence in his life that she'd existed at all. Well, aside from the tattoo.

Honestly, he was more than a little bit surprised he hadn't caught something from the place he'd gotten it done at, but they were the only ones willing to do it, what with the whiskey breath and the marginally unsteady legs he'd walked in on. The dagger helped hide the scars from his own accident, not that that had been the point, but it did help. Most people were more understanding of a tattoo than scars.

Emma had never questioned him about it, though, taking the marks marring his forearm in stride. If he had to hazard a guess, it'd be because she understood him far too well, understood the pains you didn't talk about.

Another reason she'd been special, then, another reason why he'd let himself fall in love after how disastrously the last time had gone.

He stood abruptly, stalking over to the box and robotically opening the flaps. The last vestiges of sobriety reminded him that it was a bad idea, but he didn't care, shuffling the envelopes around until he found the right one. The aged newspaper clipping was starting to yellow, the edges disintegrating from the storage conditions, but he couldn't bring himself to more permanently memorialize Milah. That would be acceptance that she was gone, that it was, well, permanent.

Her eyes were a soft brown in the picture her husband had picked, though you couldn't tell that from the grainy black and white image. But he remembered them, remembered the lines that crinkled at the corners when she smiled at him. He could practically feel her hair under his fingers, instead of the rough surface of the paper. _Survived by her husband, Robert Gold, and son (12)_ , the black ink mocked him, no mention of himself; of course her extra-marital paramour wouldn't be in her obituary. No matter that she had been estranged from Gold, no matter that she'd already planned the divorce, no matter that she'd been on the way to see _him_ when she'd died.

The weeks of agony he'd experienced during his convalescence were nothing compared to the pain of discovering she was gone; the days of wondering why she hadn't visited him washed away with two words, the pitying look on her neighbor's face when she'd told him.

As though it knew, his wrist twinged, the pain a phantom of everything he'd suffered. It had hit him like a trainwreck, then. His brother and his love, all within the span of a few months, his career and future up in smoke. He'd scoured the papers, frantic to disbelieve the kind eyes, but it had only gotten worse. The story had unfolded in a library booth, the crash a front-page affair. Prominent businessman's estranged wife dead in horrible accident. Icy roads, bad visibility, nobody should have been on the road at those hours, least of all driving at the speed she had been.

But he knew why, at least; he remembered the first call he'd made once he was conscious again and lucid. Her voicemail had been the last time he'd heard her voice; a day later she was dead, and he was none the wiser waiting for a visitor that would never come.

His legs buckled, all too similar to how it had happened then, and he fell to the floor, barely keeping himself from tumbling over. The newspaper fluttered next to him, having escaped his less-than-firm grasp.

_Milah Gold_ , it mocked him. _Beloved wife and mother._

Beloved, and bloody gone, as with everything in his life.

He let his eyes slip closed, let the world fall away into the black oblivion he'd become so familiar with, the only respite he had left.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this story and I'm so glad I've managed to get to this point and get it finished! Now, to finish upon my skin! There will probably be an epilogue to follow, but I make no guarantees.

Now, Emma was a suspicious person by nature. An unmarked envelope in her mailbox, no stamps or return addresses, her name in sloppy-but-simple print on the front? That was just begging for investigation. Not many people knew where she lived; certainly none of the more unsavory people she came across in her day job. And anyone she actually wanted to correspond with knew how to reach her (hint: it wasn't through the mail). 

The obvious thing to do would be to take it to David down at the Sheriff's office and let him open it. 

And yet.  

Curiosity prickled in her gut; most of the time her mail was full of random junk, she hardly bothered checking it anymore. Even her checks came electronically these days. And yet, here it was, addressed to one Emma Swan, and nothing else. 

Just to be on the safe side, she tugged on a pair of latex gloves from her renovations stash before opening it, carefully setting the contents down on the kitchen counter. A simple folded note and a photocopy of a newspaper clipping was all that was there, no strange powders or bizarre ransom notes spelled out in magazine clippings. 

She almost felt foolish, snapping the gloves off and throwing them in the trash. Yeah, David was always hounding her to be safer, _remember, you do help put these people behind bars too_ , but very rarely did she listen to them.  

The black and white photo drew her attention first, a pretty woman, probably in her late thirties, with dark eyes and hair. She had a far-away look in her eyes, but was smiling nonetheless. There was a date in the corner of the clipping, one from nearly a decade ago. The first sentence of the copy, though, froze Emma in her tracks. _Milah_ _Gold_ , it began, and she would swear her heart stopped beating, _beloved wife and mother,_ _will be laid to rest this Saturday_ _at Grace_ _Cemetery_ _, at two in the afternoon, after her fatal car accident last week._  

The article ( _obit_ _uary_ _,_ her mind corrected) went on to list more information, crash details, survivors, cities and roads she was pretty sure were from the UK, and details for those wishing to donate in memory of the deceased. But all she could hear in her mind was the drumbeat of the woman's name, over and over again. 

_Milah_ _Gold._ _Milah_ _. Milah. Milah._  

It had been years, but she still remembered the last time she'd seen that word, the exact same spelling, and her world didn't _have_ coincidences, not like this. 

With shaking hands, she carefully unfolded the single piece of paper that had been included. The same messy scrawl covered the page, but her eyes were foremost drawn to the signature at the bottom, the very same one that had been at the bottom of her divorce papers. 

Her former husband's handwriting had gone to shit, the letters even more slanted and illegible than usual, and that was saying a lot for a professor, but she could still make it out. 

_Emma, love, I've made a terrible mistake. I didn't fight for you when I should have, and I let you believe something that was not true simply because I was not enough of a man to face my fears and my past. I know it is too late to undo what has been done, but I hope you will at least let me explain myself. If you are willing, I will be at the_ _di_ _ner_ _tonight, with a booth for two._  

_Yours_ _in all things,_  

_Killian Jones_  

She could hardly believe it, reading and re-reading the letter again. 

It didn't add up, Killian wanting to talk, wanting to explain things to her, the obituary of a woman who was long-dead, why it was happening _now_ , all or any of it. 

Her head was spinning and she couldn't make head or tails of any of it, though she felt something was just out of her grasp, lurking on the edges of her awareness. There was only one thing to do about it. The phone had barely started ringing before her best friend picked up. 

"Ruby, I have some questions for you." 

\----------------------------- 

Killian looked rough. Even through two panes of glass, she could tell he'd been drinking. That had always been his weakness before, and it hardly seemed like the kind of thing he'd give up. The last six months they'd been together had seen his indulgences growing fewer and fewer, but she'd always known; Killian Jones was a man of the bottle. 

Now, as she watched him from her car, it was as clear as day, a bright shining beacon in the dusk. Thankfully, the diner was empty, Ruby casting worried looks at the disheveled looking man. His hair was a mess, and his jacket was haphazard across his shoulders. She couldn't see much more from her vantage point, but he was nursing a cup of something in front of him (Irish coffee, if she was a betting woman). He would occasionally look up towards the door, but Emma had been watching people too long to be obvious about it.  

Sighing, she threw the door open to the Bug and stepped out, tucking her keys in her jacket. 

She couldn't hide for forever, and Ruby's attempts to help her understand hadn't been much help. If she wanted answers, if she wanted to put him behind her once and for all, she had to face him. Even if it was the last thing she wanted to do. 

The bell above the door tinkled as she stepped inside, drawing all eyes to her. Well, Ruby and Killian. Leroy was in the kitchen, the top of his bald head just visible as he puttered around. 

Carefully she unzipped her jacket but didn't remove it; she knew herself too well to think a quick exit wouldn't come in handy, and slowly made her way to the only occupied booth in the diner. Killian nodded at Ruby, and the waitress slid out from behind the bar towards them, her greeting as perfunctory as their orders.  

Killian's lips quirked when she ordered her usual, so imperceptable she wouldn't have noticed if she hadn't been looking, and damn her she had. Yeah, he looked bad, but he still looked like the man she'd always wanted to kiss senseless, and the unshaven look did little to turn off that part of her that was still very attracted to him. 

Ruby took their orders and disappeared, silence descending over the two of them as they eyed each other. 

He looked tired, too; perhaps she'd judged him too harshly before, in the car. It wasn't just alcohol that weighed his shoulders down, but sheer exhaustion, a look she'd seen in the mirror more times than she'd like to remember, the weight of the world making it hard to carry much else. 

"I wondered if you still liked your onion rings," he muttered, the first thing he said to her since she'd walked in. 

The air was still tense, and Emma shrugged. 

"No reason not to. They're still better than fries." 

A smile slipped past his lips, small, again, before he straightened in his seat. 

"I guess I promised you answers, then, love." His eyes briefly flickered behind her before pinning her down, the blue gaze refusing to allow her to squirm under it. "I'm guessing you've spoken to Red, correct?" She nodded, resisting the urge to glance back at her friend. 

"Yeah, but she wasn't exactly helpful. She just said that you had been confused about," and there she gestured between the two of them, " _us_ , that you claimed you didn't cheat on me, which, is, whatever, and that you'd zoned out for the rest of the night." She was proud, actually, that bitterness only colored her words a little bit, that she managed to keep her face straight and meet his gaze, even through the burn that was threatening to make her own eyes water. 

He winced, but nodded. 

"Aye, that's fairly accurate as to her point of view. I was...troubled." _Still are,_ she wanted to throw in, but held her tongue. He leaned toward her, earnest. "I swear, Emma, I had no idea that's what you thought of me." 

His gaze was unblinking, solid, and her internal alarms were (alarmingly) silent. 

Truth, then. 

She bit her lip, ready to burst with questions, but he wasn't done. 

"I'll also take the liberty of assuming you saw what I sent you," he added after a moment, finally allowing himself to look away from her. Guilt flickered across his face as he searched the formica tabletop, looking for something Emma couldn't figure out. "Milah, _my_ Milah, in every way that mattered, died two weeks after I lost my brother at sea and nearly lost my hand, died coming to see _me_ , and I didn't even know until I was discharged, and," there is breathing hitched, and he looked longingly at the cup in front of him before continuing, "she's _dead_ and she's been dead ten years."  

Finally he turned his gaze back to her, eyes shiny. He was twisting his rings under the table, she could tell from the jump of his elbows, a fidgety habit he'd never broken. 

"And I still love her, god, I think I always will. But miss you; I love _you_ too. I still love you, after all this time. I came back to Boston for us. For another chance to not bollocks it all up." 

It wasn't pretty, and it wasn't lady-like, but Emma's jaw was practically on the floor. She felt like she'd been punched in the gut, like all the air had disappeared from the room, like she could hear a pin drop. 

Like her ex-husband had just told her he loved her and god _damn_ her she loved him too, despite it all, despite two years building a wall around her heart and putting the pieces back together again after him. 

She knew she was still processing, still thinking, her rational mind sorting through what he'd said, green lights coming up over every statement he'd made, all of it coming up the same way, all of it _true_. Before she could gather her wits to reply, he continued. 

"I didn't realize just how horribly I'd messed up until the other night when Ruby told me what you thought of me. I made a mistake, I didn't try to help you like I should have, I assumed the worst of you, and I'm _so very sorry,_ Swan." She wanted to interject, but he held up a hand. "I owed you better, I owed you more, and I let you down. I can't ever make that up to you, but," and there he hesitated, flickering his gaze out the window to mask whatever he was feeling before turning back to her, "if you'll have me, I promise I'll never leave you again." 

It very much seemed that the entire world was colluding to prevent her from ever getting to reply to him, because at that very moment Ruby appeared with their food, lingering just a bit longer than she strictly needed to when she saw their serious expressions. As much as Emma loved her, she didn't really need her best friend to be there for this conversation, and thankfully she seemed to be cognizant of the dead silence, and disappeared back the way she'd came. 

Honestly, Emma didn't even know where to start with a reply to that kind of declaration. What could she say, really? She clearly had her own apologies to make; assuming the worst of him and then pushing him away may have been her go-to move, but it had hurt them both now in ways she couldn't have possibly imagined. But at the same time, did she want this? Did she want him? Could she manage to let him in and set aside a lifetime of loneliness... again? She'd sworn off serious relationships after theirs had ended; the second time she'd gotten her heart broken had been all she'd needed. Fool me once, after all. 

But. The word stuck in her throat. But, she still loved Killian. She was heartbroken, and angry, but after he'd left, mostly she'd just felt... empty. She wasn't foolish enough to think that they could walk back the way they'd came and everything would be okay again, but the chance was there. 

If she was able to grasp it. If she could open herself up again. If she could stop hating herself long enough to see that Killian was picking at the fries on his own plate nervously, eyes shining with unshed tears. 

"You broke my heart, Killian," was the first thing that escaped her lips, her voice sounding small and foreign to her ears. She wished she could pull them back when he instantly crumpled, but before she could say anything else, something happened behind his eyes, because he rallied, surging across the table to grab her hands. 

"I know," he forced out, intensity shining in his gaze, " _god_ , I know. But I can try to put it back together if you'll let me. And...if it's broken, that means it still _works_." 

Emma Swan was not a person who was prone to bouts of crying.  She hadn't shed a tear in years, truly cried in even longer, but something inside her just...broke. He wanted to fix her, to help her, to caulk the cracks in her broken ceramic heart, and _god_ she needed to finish this stupid renovation, because she was laughing through the tears now, hiccuping and crying even harder at her horrible metaphors while a warm body slid into the booth next to her. 

Killian was still clutching her hands, but he wasn't the one beside her. No, that would be Ruby, her arms wrapped tight around Emma's sholders while she glared daggers at the man across from them. She couldn't clear her voice enough to tell her to stop, that it wasn't _bad_ crying, but she did managed to squeeze Killian's fingers back, the only affirmation she could manage right now. 

It was all too much, far too many emotions and information in far too short of a time frame, and she could feel it weighing her down, the bough ready to break from it all. And she had broken, the tears starting to turn into something marginally hysterical as she struggled to find her voice again. After clearing her throat three times, she finally managed to croak a few words out. 

"Ruby, it's okay," she said first, letting go of Killian's hands long enough to brush her hair back away from her now-hot face. "I'm okay." She pressed the backs of her hands against her cheeks, willing her body to cool, to calm down and return to normal. 

Her friend looked at her doubtfully before shaking her head and rising, one last vicious look at Killian thrown over her shoulder before she left. There would be a discussion to be had later with her, she was sure, but right now Emma was willing to just thank god for the other woman's ability to bite her tongue in this situation. Killian was still looking at her with concern, completely oblivious to Ruby's intentions, his food forgotten in front of him. Not that either of them had ever even acknowledged their plates; her onion rings were probably cold by now. 

God, this was not going as expected _at all_. 

She scrubbed at her face, pressing against her eyes until sparks flew under her eyelids. 

"I'm sorry, apparently this is...a lot," she said lamely, eventually, because she couldn't think of a better excuse for her meltdown. 

But it was good enough for him, because he relaxed, slumping back in the booth. 

"Aye, I'm so sorry for dumping it all on you, love," he replied, huffing out a breath. "Perhaps we should table talk of our...relationship...for now, and just enjoy the food?" 

That was one thing they could agree on, and Emma nodded, taking her own deep breath before reaching for the perfectly grilled sandwich set in front of her. He took a bite of his burger, and they ate in companionable silence. Her mind was still whirling, but at least now she felt like she was able to process things, like pieces were slotting into place better than they ever had. 

Shame roiled in her gut, a reminder that she was the reason they were even in this position, that it was her who had pushed him out the door with far less than the full picture. But she had to force that down to focus, and so she did. She'd always been good at this, or so she thought. Evaluating the situation. Determining the best path. 

But with her heart involved, everything was more complicated than it should have been. 

Part of her was wary of him, wanted to step carefully lest the house of cards that was her emotional balance come crashing down(except, yeah right, it already had, she'd just bawled her eyes out in the middle of her friend's diner), but a not-insignificant part of her definitely still missed him. Still loved him, even.  

She took a deep breath, and he looked up from his plate, practically swallowing audibly before straightening his shoulders, looking for all the world like a man about to face a firing squad. 

"I, uh, I clearly don't know what to say, other than...I'm sorry. I didn't think, I just...reacted. And I assumed you were just like everyone else, and I pushed you away. So I'm sorry." And now came the hardest part. "I...miss you too." 

He gaped. She took a bite of another onion ring, mildly amused at his blatant shock. So she did still have a few surprises left in her. 

"I'm not saying we can just pick right up where we left off-" 

"Of course not," he assured her, finally choking back the surprise. 

"-but, maybe, we can be friends, to start off with." 

His smile was enough to probably light up the whole diner and maybe even blow a few fuses. 

"Aye, friends is more than fine with me. We were good at being friends." Killian looked completely different now than he had when she'd walked in. Gone was the oppressive weight; this was the man who reminded her of what she'd loved. His grin was light, and it felt like a glimmer of hope in a future that suddenly felt a lot more secure. 

"There's just one thing I need to know, since we're friends now," she said, and he perked up. 

"Anything, Swan, you name it." 

She smirked at him over the curve of her last onion ring. 

"Good to know. Now....can you grout tile?" 


End file.
